


Sparkle

by Captain_Boo_Bear



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Character Study, Disjointed, F/F, Female socialisation, Femininity, Future Fic, POV Second Person, poor little rich girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Boo_Bear/pseuds/Captain_Boo_Bear
Summary: The next time you see her she’s wider and taller and painted up like she’s going to a discotheque – in a word, pubescent; trying on more years than she has like a costumeand you want to laugh but that’s a little too familiarand yet not, shorter hair and coloured talc covering a face you don’t know anymore.





	Sparkle

The next time you see her she’s wider and taller and painted up like she’s going to a discotheque – in a word, pubescent; trying on more years than she has like a costume  
and you want to laugh but that’s a little too familiar  
and yet not, shorter hair and coloured talc covering a face you don’t know anymore.

Once upon a time, for a horrible moment, you thought you liked her brother. Something about him irked you too much, probably that stupid little thing at the crown of his head, or the way he grinned (like an idiot) when he was excited about some dorky thing, and you actually blushed when he caught you staring.

When he sees you in the park wiling time away by the sundial he tells you Mabel asked after you and your mind, buzzing and bristling as it is, surges with _excitement/joy/fear_.  
  
At the age of four you were pulled and tied and strapped into a frilly white dress and sandals which pinched and taken to this park to stand silently next to your parents as they unveiled a Very Important piece of metal with your great-great-something’s name embossed in gold. All the other kids darted away from the adults as soon as they arrived, or were let go as soon as they started squirming. You stood there, straight-backed and silent, your mother’s manicured hand a constant weight on your shoulder. Afterwards, as people were milling around making small talk and congratulating each other about it, a girl with grass-stained overalls and chocolately fingers asked you to play red rover. She was laughed off before you could open your mouth. _Your tights will rip, your dress will get dirty, your underwear will show, do you know how long it took to get your hair to sit like that?_ (You did know, because you’d been made to sit too, again and again, prodded back into place every time you moved. At the time you thought maybe you were a very fidgety child – that maybe good children weren’t so animated.)

You’re not sure of the last time you were comfortable. The belts and buckles bite into your flesh, laces leave pink crosses in their wake, frills and chiffon itch and leather stifles, but it doesn’t matter, because your skin doesn’t feel like yours anyway.

The sweater she’d presented you with before she left was lumpy, turquoise, and sporadically sequined, a yellow crown bobbled with colours on the front. It was the tackiest thing that had ever been in your house bar her, and you told her so. But she knew, and she just – _beamed_ at you  
(like an idiot) (like sunshine)

It’s still the most comfortable piece of clothing you own.

Casual, he says. Multiple times, like you don’t own jeans. Two-thousand-dollar jeans, but still. You trace the design and sip tersely at your diet soda, willing away the tenseness in your hands. The shack is still a shack and they fit it like you don’t and all the local teenagers you don’t talk to are flitting around and towards her like moths. She breaks away through the barrier like it's not there (and it isn't) and launches a hug tighter than your chest.  
Up-close her nose is too large, her jewellery handmade, her teeth straighter but still prominent, and there’s glitter on her lips, her dress, hair, and cheeks. Up-close she looks like Mabel.

You tell her she must still take beauty tips from circus clowns. You don’t tell her sparkles suit her.  
(You think she probably knows.)

When you hang back you find her less a made-up girl and more a Van Gogh, and when she turns to greet you half her hair sticks to the five layers of glittery turquoise gloss she’s wearing. 

(“Call Dipper; it’s the sasquatch, whoo!”  
“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re the city girl.”)

You tut impatiently as you free her, like you have anywhere else you’d rather be.

And later you won’t remember who leaned in first  
which probably means you both did  
But when you pull apart you have hair in your mouth and you think you swallowed some glitter and you want to do it again so you say so

and she sparkles.


End file.
